


The Journey

by hewwow (nonworth)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Recall, Young Genji Shimada, Young Hanzo Shimada, a really long character study, and like psychological things, bear with me and my assumptions on how hanzo is, hanzo character study, i mean some day it'll have fluff and more angst, more tags to be added as this goes on, there is violence, though those are minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-18 22:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonworth/pseuds/hewwow
Summary: His identity has long been lost, but perhaps, with the appearance of a ghost and meeting of new people, he could re-discover who Shimada Hanzo is.





	1. The Oyabun's Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> My assumptions on Hanzo's character, super unbetaed, bad summary, please let me know if you'd like any tags added, thank you for reading.
> 
> Title changed because I didn't realize there was another fic with the exact same title and watch there be one with this exact same title again rip

If there was one regret Sojiro held onto as he breathed his last, it was that his eldest son grew up too fast.

Indeed, he was the one who allowed for Hanzo to be ripped away from the small joys in life, but he was, by no means, a cold-hearted man.

No, that was false. He had no heart, thinking back on what he had done to his son, but he did care.

He had tried his best to prevent the greedy hands of the elders from latching onto his son too quick in life; he made sure that he enjoyed at least a small piece of normal childhood, keeping his birth a secret from the world to prevent attempts of assassination upon his life, keeping hidden guards within range once he was allowed to wander outside, letting him have fun.

Perhaps it was against the image of an oyabun who led an empire of trade of arms, illegal substances, and the taking of lives, but a paternal love he never knew he could harbor rose when his wife had gently pressed a newborn Hanzo into his arms.

Such delicate life, such innocence in the small smiles the infant would show.

Then Genji came into the world, and the love grew by infinite.

Hanzo was a mere three-year-old then, still young but quiet. His eyes had glittered with curiosity when presented with the newborn, but had quickly gotten attached to the idea of being an older brother, holding Genji’s hand with all the gentleness a child could muster.

When the point came where Genji could now walk and talk, giggling endlessly at everything that happened around him, Sojiro was used to the life where he could enjoy watching his two sons run around the vast mansion, sitting at the highest point of the mansion with his wife by his side, pretending as if he didn’t notice when the children would sneak out to get ramen from Rikimaru.

It was all a gentleness he wished to preserve, to keep away from the darkness that tainted the Shimada name.

Alas, the Shimada empire was too big of power to push away, and Hanzo was the first to be tainted.

When he was seven, he was told of the nature of his family. The weaponry, the substances, the killings. Hanzo didn’t seem to want to believe at first, undoubtedly shocked that such a sleepy village could be the center of such activities, but he had always been too mature for his age. Quiet, clever, calculating.

Of course, he refused to accept the fact that he had no choice but to become the heir of the clan. It was too big of a contrast to his life prior; a carefree life where he laughed and played with his younger brother and loving parents, to one where there would be nothing but spilt blood.

But he was a child. His refusal was nothing some sweet words, calculated praises, and promises of power couldn’t break down.

He began his training at age eight.

* * *

 

Sojiro watched his son change every day.

Hanzo had always been a quiet one; laughter was rare, but smiles had always been present. Not mischievous, but still playful.

Mature for his age, but still childish in his own ways.

The elders made sure to destroy whatever child was left in the boy.

He had indeed complained to Sojiro about his studies before, as any child would, muttering about how boring it was and how he wished he could go outside with Genji. But as his postures were corrected, vocabulary extended, and discipline was taught, those complaints faded. As he accompanied his father to his meetings, watching and listening to the conversations, his eyes had hardened resolve in them—a look that was much too old for a mere ten-year-old. Sojiro saw his son gaze at him with newfound respect, and it twisted something in his heart.

He would soon have to start treating him as he would any other adult. Cold, distant, cutting.

He dreaded when Genji turned seven—dreaded the moment he would have to witness the younger son be broken down like his firstborn. He realized it would be far more difficult to swallow this change; Genji was the rowdy, mischievous one, always looking for trouble, always laughing at the top of his lungs.

But it turned out that he would not have to worry so much, because Hanzo’s dragons made an appearance.

_Twin dragons._

When Hanzo had dropped his pencil in the middle of a lesson, head drooping forward, his instructor had been prepared to scold him until he saw the blue light curling off of his form.

Sojiro rushed in at his son’s wails of agony that came with a bright burst of light, barely able to open his eyes at the large gust of wind that surged through the room. Paper flew everywhere, books got torn, and the walls creaked with effort as they tried to withstand the pressure of the wind.

When the wind died down, his son’s left sleeve was burnt off, decorated with an elaborate work of ink that covered from shoulder to wrist. Sojiro knew what it was, but still couldn’t believe his eyes. The spirit tattoo was larger than any he remembered seeing, and his curiosity was answered when blue light appeared once more—gentler, this time—and two, not one, figures rose from within the ink.

Two pairs of eyes stared inquisitively at the figures in the room before focusing on their new master, who in turn stared back with fascination, before the look changed to one of determination. The spirits seemed amused, then satisfied, and sank back into Hanzo’s arm.

Hanzo stared at his ink for a moment, running his fingers gently along the scales and curves, before turning to Sojiro, as if awaiting response.

“Nobody has hosted two great spirit dragons for a long, long time,” Sojiro said, still dazed. “I… am proud of you, my son.”

For the first time in two years, Sojiro saw a genuine smile spread on his son’s face before he tilted sideways, falling with a gentle _thump_ on the tatami mat. The elders, present since some time ago, instructed the nearby servants for Hanzo to be taken to his room. Sojiro would have carried him to the room himself if he could, but his legs didn’t obey him.

While there was indescribable pride for his firstborn, agony choked him, and his fears were confirmed when the elders spoke up again.

“It is time, Sojiro,” they said. “Hanzo shows great potential. The future of the Shimada clan is bright.”

“How absolutely _fascinating._ ”

Sojiro let out a soft curse as the footsteps faded into distance.

* * *

 

The dragons normally claimed a new host when the host is 16, and thus martial arts training began at ten or younger and harsh physical training began at 14 to get the host physically ready to bear the burden of having a great spirit within them. Hanzo was barely ten when his dragons claimed him—he was still physically unfit, and _two_ dragons had pushed their way into his unprepared soul. He was left weak for a long time, always in pain.

The elders did not give him a chance to rest.

As soon as Hanzo had awakened since his fainting, he was taken by the elders and pushed into the hands of the best instructors for weaponry and martial arts. Though his weakened state slowed him, he quickly showed promises in the swords, bow, and martial arts. His instructors always proudly announced to Sojiro that the boy was a prodigy, and were almost jealous.

When it was clear that Hanzo would not have problems with the physical training, his studies resumed, along with extra lessons on leadership, strategy and tactics. Even in those, Hanzo showed natural talent.

It was clear that the packed schedule took a toll on the still young boy, but Hanzo took it with stride, never complaining and persisting.

It wasn’t long until the elders began to get greedy, seeing the glory Hanzo could bring to the clan, and wanting some of that glory to themselves.

The words of praise that came from the elders and instructors fed Hanzo’s pride. Soon, those words turned manipulative, twisting Hanzo’s mind until he could barely distinguish what was right from wrong. Despite that, Hanzo still refused to do one thing: the taking of lives.

And this—this was the moment Sojiro regretted the most.

He saw what became of his firstborn, saw what the elders did to gain power. He was indeed the oyabun, but even he was powerless against the sly way the elders toyed with his son’s mind.

When he saw Hanzo, he no longer saw his son, but someone unfamiliar.

But Genji—sweet, young Genji was still the same careless, mischievous child that he always was. Even after his mother’s untimely death, he remained the same, though Hanzo only hardened himself more. Perhaps Sojiro was afraid of seeing the changes his youngest son would go through, to see the last of his gentlest memories fade away.

He could not prevent the lessons from taking place, but he could protect his sparrow from going into the clutches of the elders. After all, most of their interests were invested into his eldest son. So he made a deal with them.

Hanzo would be free for them to mold, but Genji would remain as who he was.

Of course, there were many arguments, many oppositions. Sojiro remained stubborn, but struggled to maintain his argument when one of the elders spoke up.

“If Hanzo is willing to allow for this to happen,” the elder said, the faintest of smiles upon his lips, “we will accept. Is it not only fair for the future heir of this clan, and one of the two subjects of this deal, to have a say?”

One month is the time they gave him. Fitting, because in one month, Genji would turn ten, ready to begin the more physical aspects of his training.

Perhaps they believed that Sojiro was too soft hearted to tell his son about how he was willing to subject him to pain and burden while his brother would be free from all of that. Perhaps they believed that Hanzo would not allow for this unequal treatment, that he would wish for Genji to bear the same responsibility he did.

Perhaps, they had forgotten why and how Sojiro had become the oyabun of one of the greatest criminal empires in the world.

At age thirteen, Hanzo was lead to a room where a man was held. The man, a supposed traitor, who had his hands tied behind his back, teeth gnawing at the gag tied around his head.

The man Sojiro tortured for information regarding his master.

Burns, whips, cuts. So much bleeding and screaming.

When Sojiro handed Hanzo a sword, he willed for his heart to remain cold at the sight of barely-concealed terror in Hanzo’s eyes, and urged for him to _bring the blade down, right on the neck, behead him._

When Hanzo hesitated, Sojiro had knelt beside his heir, whispering words of toxic, telling him how this man had betrayed the clan and brought everyone’s lives in danger-- _his servants’, the elders’, his brother’s._

“This is what an oyabun does, Hanzo,” Sojiro had said. “Kill, to protect family.”

_Because he knew that Hanzo valued the lives of his family the most._

He merely patted him on the shoulder and told him that he was _proud_ when the screams had been silenced, when the firstborn remained kneeling in the puddle of blood, staring down at his hands and the blade that had clattered to the ground.

The next day, Hanzo asked for a meeting with the elders and his father, and in a perfect form of _dogeza,_ he gave his first request as the heir:

“If to be an oyabun is to protect the family,” a quiet, broken voice rang through the room, still high-pitched as a prepubescent boy’s should be, “I will do anything to do so, even kill. But please, don’t ask this of Genji.”

The elders had been silent before begrudgingly agreeing, meeting Sojiro’s cold gaze.

Sojiro had lost his first son a long time ago, but he had protected his second.


	2. The Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was always a rift between the brothers, no matter how deeply they may have cared for each other.
> 
> A rift that could never be repaired, and would only grow more.

Hanzo and Genji had always had a rift between them, despite their love for one another.

As the older brother, Hanzo had a desire to protect Genji, his beloved younger brother. The desire had only grown exponentially after the events that took place when he was thirteen.

Genji held an admiration for his brother, to the point where he almost idolized him—and how could he not?

His brother was to become a crime lord, heir to one of the largest underground empire. He had the blessings of two great spirit dragons, and proved himself as a prodigy in all areas: tactic, strategy, weaponry, martial arts. In eight-years-old Genji’s eyes, there was nothing his brother couldn’t accomplish.

Young Genji’s dream was to be able to lead the clan by Hanzo’s side. When he had expressed this thought to his brother, the elder had shown one of his rare smiles— _reserved just for Genji—_ and patted him on his head.

“I look forward to when the day comes, little brother,” Hanzo had said, before resuming his work.

Those words were what had inspired Genji to give his best to his studies, determined and eager to catch up to Hanzo.

But soon he found out that he would never be able to stand on equal grounds as his brother.

Whereas Hanzo proved to be a natural leader, Genji was never so—he was always a little too naïve, nowhere near calculative as his brother.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never quite fully understand the logic behind mathematics, or science, or the deep meanings hidden within the passages of books they were to read. He could never best his brother when it came to sparring in both martial arts and weaponry, always falling a little short.

And if it ever seemed that he could catch up to the elder, Hanzo would suddenly push ahead, leaving him behind in the dust.

Needless to say, comparison began to take place.

Their tutors never failed to display their disappointment when Genji couldn’t figure out the answer to a problem that Hanzo had easily solved. Never failed to compare his swordsmanship to Hanzo’s.

“Why can’t you be like Hanzo?”

“Brothers, but so different.”

“Are you two really related?”

Genji held an admiration for his brother, but it was a thing coated with bitterness.

He knew, when the last second of his tenth year passed, and no dragon showed, he would never be able to become like Hanzo.

Though, by that point, Genji was already wondering if he truly did want to become like his brother.

Hanzo had changed.

His older brother had once been bright. Not loud, no, but always had a playful smile on his face as they played hide-and-seek or tag.

After his studies began, he became cold and closed off. Even then, though, his eyes held a spark of mirth when he saw Genji, and there was a certain warmth that radiated from him whenever they were alone together, discussing the small things that happened around the mansion.

_That night,_ Genji had been waiting in Hanzo’s room to ask a question about an assignment. His curiosity was chipping away at him, wondering what it was that their father wished for Hanzo to do this late at night.

The being that walked in was not his brother.

He was pale, quiet— _empty._ There was no spark of joy in those eyes as they stared down at the floor. His posture was hunched, and he all but collapsed before his desk, landing heavily on his behind and looking at nothing.

“Hanzo?”

_Nothing._

“Hanzo, is that… is that… blood?”

_Nothing._

“Brother, say something—…”

“Leave.”

Genji had been momentarily stunned by the hoarseness of his brother’s voice. He sounded so… broken.

He tried once more to get something, _anything_ , out of his brother, but once again, he was met with silence.

Hesitantly, he left, glancing once behind him before he closed the door.

He didn’t leave, however, opting to remain standing outside.

There was nothing he could do as he heard his brother sob.

* * *

 

From that day on, Hanzo’s growth was unstoppable. It was as if Hanzo had decided anew to dedicate his entire being to the clan.

He easily beat the weaponry and martial arts instructors, until they decided that there truly was nothing for them to teach Hanzo. The textbooks and literature books were finished within matter of days, all problems solved in multitudes of ways and analysis of texts given in more point of views than the tutors thought possible.

He received praise and words of envy. Never from their father, no; Sojiro believed that Hanzo could do better, that he was always lacking somehow.

Perhaps their father was the reason why Hanzo began to spit words of arrogance.

_Superiority complex._ That was all Genji could think of whenever he saw and heard Hanzo, now.

Every time Hanzo beat him down during sparring sessions, there was a dissatisfied sigh followed by words of disappointment.

He no longer returned thanks to the praises he received, but rather, responded haughtily, as if they had insulted him.

There was… no sense of modesty, to say the least. Not in the way he raised his chin and puffed out his chest in a display of dominance at people who challenge him in the slightest, not in the way he continued to show his disappointment in Genji’s inability to catch up to him.

It made his admiration ebb down to near nothing, and by the time Genji was twenty, the desire to be involved with the “family business” was long gone.

He had seen what power had done to his brother; it destroyed him, morphed him into someone completely different. Some days, he saw Hanzo cleaning off the blood from his blade, nonchalant and apathetic, and Genji would further distance himself from the clan.

He began to wander—he snuck out of the mansion, met new people, experienced new things. Developed relationships of all sorts, memorized the best combination of alcohols, learned about the life of those outside of the mansion.

It was all so different from what he had been through in the clan, and he quickly got addicted to it.

He really couldn’t sneak back into the mansion at two AM in the morning in his inebriated state. As hard as he tried, he could never completely quieten his footsteps, or hide quickly enough from eyes of those still awake. The first time he came back home drunk, he fully expected harsh lectures, even lashings.

But Sojiro had only told him to be careful, to be mindful of his surroundings, and that was that. No one told him off, not verbally, at least. The elders themselves couldn’t do much against the words of a determined clan leader except give him disapproving glares.

He was the most surprised when Hanzo didn’t say anything.

… Well, no, he _did_ say things. But nothing as harsh as Genji had imagined.

“Your actions bring dishonor to the family,” Hanzo had once muttered, displeasure lining his voice as he caught him leaving the castle.

“I do not care much for the family,” Genji had retorted, running a hand through his freshly dyed green hair.

“At least attend your classes.”

“I might.”

The conversation had been dropped there, and Genji had continued on his way.

Hanzo never attempted to stop him.

If only he knew then, what his actions did to Hanzo.

* * *

 

“Dishonorable!”

“Appalling!”

“Ridiculous!”

Anger was thick in the air, crushing Hanzo under its weight.

“Why is it that Sojiro would not do anything about that impudent child?!” one of the elders spat, his white moustache trembling in anger. “He goes outside every day, sleeping around, drinking, _tearing down the reputation of the clan!”_

“The other clans already laugh at us,” another hissed, clenching his frail hand into a fist. “ _’How far the Shimada have fallen, to allow for such acts of indecency.’_ ”

“And yet all Sojiro does is smile and protect his precious _‘Sparrow,’_ ” the last word was spat with ferocity by another elder.

“He is still young, and absolutely _foolish._ ”

Hanzo truly did not know why the elders had decided to seat him in front of them as they exchanged insults about Genji and his father. Perhaps they were hoping for Hanzo to become envious and angry at his father’s blatant favoritism, and straighten out his wayward brother.

But why would he, when all he desired for was this? For Genji himself to lose all interest in the family, so that he may never have to take lives as he does?

By now, he had learned to cope with the deaths by calling them “honorable kills.” But he remembered so clearly the unexplainable feeling of his first kill.

He never wished for it upon his brother. His mischievous, carefree brother who was able to experience freedom.

Granted, Genji’s actions worried him—it couldn’t possibly be safe, the way he drank and partied so much—but at least he wasn’t murdering anyone.

Yes, at times, he was hit with pangs of jealousy as his father only gave him words of anger and dissatisfaction, but smiles and endearments to Genji.

And he pushed that envy aside, knowing that there was nothing he could do about it, lest he condemn his brother to the very thing he did not wish for him to experience. He was the heir, and his brother was not.

He assumed that this would be how life was now—Genji, out and about, exploring the world, while Hanzo would shoulder all the responsibility of the clan. Perhaps by the time Sojiro passed and the protection for Genji wore down, his brother would be long gone, out of Hanamura, out of Japan, and in some part of the world where he could truly be free from the clutches of the Shimada. Perhaps, by then, Hanzo would have enough power and respect to be able to put up his own protection ward for Genji, to ensure his brother’s freedom.

Alas, whatever gods up above that have been tolerating them had decided to truly leave them.

Sojiro Shimada was assassinated.

It was during a quiet meeting at a restaurant with a clan they had close alliances with—both leaders of the clans had been shot by an unknown sniper.

Sojiro was shot twice—once in his shoulder, and another in his guts as he rose in alarm.

The other leader, through the head.

Hanzo watched his father lurch forward at the impact of the bullets, collapsing into a growing puddle of his own blood. It all happened so quickly that he couldn’t quite register what was happening until the third shot rang out, and the other clan leader fell.

All of his training was wiped away as he stared at his father reaching up to clutch his sleeve and wheeze.

His father, who, despite all his cruelty and coldness, was still once his hero. Someone he truly looked up to.

Someone he never thought would meet his end in a manner such as this.

When the fourth shot rang out, and the bullet grazed his cheek, he finally heard the screams of the waiters and other customers, and scrambled to his feet, throwing his father’s body over his shoulders into a fireman’s carry. He ran into the crowd, hoping to be able to throw off the sniper in the chaos until he reached the car.

By the time both Hanzo and Sojiro were in the car and speeding off toward the mansion, Sojiro was no longer breathing, and a wispy figure of a gray dragon left his body and ascended to the night sky.

Hanzo never heard the quietly murmured apology that got lost in his father’s last breath.

* * *

 

The funeral was solemn, as it always is. It was large—a gravestone among many others in the Shimada family graveyard, in between two great cherry blossom trees.

Everyone was on their knees, in rows—the first row consisted of Hanzo and Genji, in the center, and the elders. The other members of the clan made up the rest of the rows. There was absolute silence; even the wind was still, and the only thing breaking the world out of its frozen state was the incense smoke that slowly curled into the air.

A few of those who truly respected his father shed tears.

Hanzo could not.

He was numb, still in a state of shock and disbelief, unable to believe that his father was gone.

It was all so… dreamlike.

Perhaps the elders had sensed this vulnerability in him, for they had pulled him aside right after the funeral.

“Hanzo,” one hissed into his ear. “It is time for you to claim your throne.”

Distantly, he registered himself nodding in response. He missed the smiles that slowly stretched across the elders’ faces.

* * *

 

The ceremony was nothing grand.

Hanzo was seated in the center of a room, surrounded by the elders. The rest of the clan waited outside.

There was no oath to be made, no contracts to be signed; it was not the way the Shimada dedicated their lived to the family.

No, their proof of loyalty came in the form of burnt skin and metal turned bright red by the flames.

When the brand met his right arm with a _hiss_ , it took all he had to not let out a wail of pain, teeth grinding against one another and sweat furiously pouring down his face. The stench of burnt flesh assaulted his nose, and his arm turned numb from sheer, white-hot pain, but he kept the tears and screams in.

When they removed the metal, the symbol of the clan was clear on his arm: the two dragons holding one another’s tail in their maws.

Despite the dizziness that claimed him as he stood, _despite the pain that wracked through his body,_ he threw open the door of the room, and faced all those waiting for him.

“… Kneel,” he started, quiet, the burn still affecting him.

This will not do.

He was the leader, the lord now.

He gritted his teeth and straightened his form, and his eyes sharpened as he stared down at those who he would lead now.

_“Kneel, before the new oyabun of the Shimada clan!”_

One by one, Hanzo watched them fall to their knees, bowing with respect at their new leader.

Genji, of course, didn’t.

No one but Hanzo saw him there, standing in the shadowy corner of the hallway, gazing at him with— _disdain?_ He wasn’t quite sure at this point.

When their eyes met, Hanzo felt exhaustion wash over him, and as soon as the elders finished their speech and the crowd was dismissed, they retreated to their own respective rooms.

Hanzo all but collapsed on his futon, the pain from his blistering skin finally dragging him down into the world of unconscious.

Neither brother was quite prepared for what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't say this the last chapter but updates will be irregular because I like jumping from between drawing and writing
> 
> unbetaed, also i lose my literacy and coherence disappears the more i write and i haven't written a long piece like this one for a while so please bear with me
> 
> as usual, feedback is welcome, and please do let me know if there are any tags you would like me to update the story with!


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